Picture a sprawling, golden citadel. Spires reaching towards the sky, every building a work of art. Gilded and enamelled with the finest materials: gold, silver, ivory, and marble. A city of artists, of scholars, of poets. A city that blurs the line between ambition and greed. Between desire and gluttony. A city that overstepped that line gladly, into excess.
Yet with that sweetness, the city drew pestilence. Sickness and worms writhed in its saccharine heart, infesting the city of Arcus, rotting it from the inside out. By the time they realised the damage they'd wrought to themselves, it was too late. Festering inside them, the plague consumed them. The last act of those poets was to seal the walls of their city deep underground, so the pestilence died with them.